Felled
by Cheryl W
Summary: When Bohannon's life is in his hands, Elam realizes that sometimes friendship and loyalty are color blind. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

Felled

Disclaimer: I do not own or have any rights to Hell on Wheels, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to CrashDisaster who encouraged me to do a Hell on Wheels story. Thanks for believing in me! And I totally have to thank my nephew for getting me hooked on the show. He showed me 2 episodes and then I was a goner, got totally obsessed. What can I say, the civil war/ western story line and that sexy southern drawl coming from a good looking guy is pretty hard for me to not love.

XXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 1

XXXXXXXXXX

Though the Nebraska Territory sky was without a cloud, Cullen Bohannon could feel the coming storm on the breeze. He didn't question the need to dig the cut in the valley ahead of the storm, knew that the area, a few days from then, would be more slick mud than prairie. It was the reason the black men that made up the cut crew were out there now, ten miles ahead of the current leading edge of the rail line.

And Cullen had come along, not so much to oversee the Walking Boss, Elam, or the other black workers but because Hell on Wheels was suffocating him, though it was the very bare bones of what one could label a "town." It was still too many people, too many tents, reminded him too sharply of the war when the wind whipped through, ruffled his tent flaps, rattled the hanging pans and kettles and swayed the lanterns. He swore he could almost hear the cry of the wounded and dying again on nights like that. Men whose agony made them cotton to see a reaper more than an angel of mercy.

Inhaling for a moment more the fresh prairie wind as it blew his hair back from his face, Bohannon then put his hat on and turned to his men. And that was another revelation, to have men he called his own again. To be leading others…when he felt so lost himself. It was the oddity of command, of knowing what was best for others while figuring out his own path to take roiled inside him like a pan of stew over a fire.

Raised voices from the front of the line had him narrowing his eyes against the sun and striding to the sight of the ruckus. "What's the hold up?" he demanded, his southern draw not hidden in the sharpness of his tone as he stood on the lip of the cut and scowled down at the men arguing instead of working.

A thin black man with tight curly hair shaved close to his head looked up at the foreman towering over him, swallowed, fought to not cringe already at the blow that probably would follow his confession. "Boss, Sir, pick ain't breaking up this rock no how. No matter how hard I strike it."

Psalms, the man Cullen had seen Elam with the most, glared at the other black man, scoffed, "Apparently your master didn't work you hard enough, you's weak is what it is." And then he gave the other man a shove, raised his own pick high and swung it down where the other man's blows had landed before without much success. But strike after strike, the rock refused to give way to either the pick's point or the former slave's strength.

Ripples of snickers echoed through the gathered workers, sending Psalms into a typical fit of anger as he challenged someone to do better. And then others were scrambling forward, eager to prove themselves Psalms better, were shoving each other to get into position to tackle the rock.

Sensing that it was a situation ripe for chaos, Bohannon growled, "Ya'll move back," even as he stepped into the cut, intending to put hands on the closest troublemaker. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the burliest of the black workers haul back his pick, ready to wallop the rock. Trouble was, he was in the path of the man's backward arch. Even as he was telling himself to dodge the spiked iron aiming for his head, agony blossomed across his skull and he was falling and being doused in darkness all in one go.

XXXXXXX

TBC

XXXXXXX

Well, I hope you like it so far! Up next, Elam comes onto the scene.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	2. Chapter 2

Felled

Disclaimer: I do not own or have any rights to Hell on Wheels, nor am I making any profit from this story.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 2

XXXXXXXXXXX

Elam was stumping up the cut line, a bit mad that Bohannon was getting in the middle of business that was his own job to see to as Walking Boss. But as he drew closer, his gut started churning like it sometimes did before something bad happened.

Then it was like fate herself heard him thinking, simply snapped her fingers and brought judgment down on them all.

But it didn't happened quick like it had with Willie, but slow, taunting Elam with the notion that, if he ran, he could stop it. Stop that pick from landing that blow. But he had just started to run, shouted out a warning "no!" when Cullen was struck. The momentum of the impact spinning the southerner around, sending him collapsing on the ground, face fist, his hat flying off, caught on the breeze a spell like they were in the middle of some lighthearted game.

Dread ate through Elam as he pushed through the stunned scared Freed men and then he froze. Blood dripped off Bohannon, pooled on the ground like Willie's had done. And he wasn't sure he could bear to flip Cullen over, to see that same lifeless look in the eyes of the first white man that ever earned his respect. But he owed Cullen Bohannon that much….more.

Stepping forward, he went to his knees seemingly inch by inch. His trousers wet at the knees almost instantly, the fabric soaking up the blood like it would water. And his strong, calloused hand, he was ashamed to see it shaking. 'It's not like you ain't seen death 'fore. Plenty of times,' his ridiculing thoughts spurred him to coil his hand around Bohannon's arm and roll the man onto his back in the freshly dug up dirt.

'He's eyes ain't open,' was the first thought that flashed through Elam's mind but the second…it was something he only recently learned he was still capable of: Hope. The flickering notion that everything won't turn out bad. That there was a God and, on some days, He don't hate him.

Bending over, Elam put his ear to Cullen's chest are there be a heartbeat coming back at him. "He ain't dead," he announced but he couldn't help silently add, 'Not yet,' cause hope, it was a fickle thing. Raising his head, he began shouting out orders. "Get me some water, some rags and bring the buckboard close."

Though a few men started to move, to do his bidding, Psalms raised voice stilled the lot of black railroad workers. "No."

Looking up, laying wide eyes on his now-and-then friend, Elam spat, "What you mean 'no'! You hear me, he's alive, needs tending to by the doc back at camp."

Psalms stepped closer to tower over the kneeling Elam and shot a menacing glare down upon his white boss, helpless and bleeding at his feet. "What he need….is to die."

His blood running cold at the other man's words, Elam narrowed his eyes in fury. "This ain't Johnson who whipped us, killed Willie, that we talking 'bout."

"We bring him back to camp and he tell 'em one of us done that to him, we might all hang," Psalms speculated, heard the rumbling agreement of the rest of the Freed men.

But Elam confidently stated, "He'll tell 'em it was a accident."

Psalms huffed, "And if he don't?"

"He will," Elam vowed, had come to know enough of Bohannon's nature to be sure of that.

"You don't know that and we ain't betting our lives on that," Psalms spoke for the Freed work crew. And Elam knew that , while he trusted the man bleeding in the dirt inches from him, the other former slaves were measuring Bohannon by the standards of their old masters where mercy was suspect and respect didn't live.

Tightening his grip on his pick, Psalms decided, "No, it better he die out here and we tell our own story, say a horse done kicked him, killed him right off." Then he stepped closer to Bohannon, raised the pick, planned on making the next blow that the foreman took very intentional.

Surging to his feet, Elam grabbed the handle of Psalms' raised pick, stopped it from swinging anywhere near Bohannon. "I know him," he growled in Psalms face, his eyes warning what would happen if he tried to get round him, get to Bohannon.

For a second, there was almost pity in Psalms' eyes but it soon morphed to disgust. "You think he's like your master, the one that let you in the house, let you think you got rights, got you thinkin' that you better than the rest of your kind. All the while…that master of yours, he be chuckling at how easy to fool you is. Just like he be doing all this time," and he jerked his chin to the unmoving man lying in the mud.

Jaw clenched, Elam challenged, "That right? He fooling me? If he no better than a master how come he didn't kill me and you for cheating him in the fight, making him look weaker than one of us?"

Psalms openly flinched at the knowledge that Bohannon knew he had a hand in cheating him in the fight. He didn't know of another white man that woulda let him live who done that to him. It told him Bohannon wasn't cut from the same cloth of other white men. "Punishment for this won't be up to him. The Swede will hang the lot of us."

But Elam shook his head. "He wasn't hurt on purpose. Bohammon will say so."

The man, Marcus, who had struck the blow to Cullen, stepped forward, spat, "How he say that when he out cold? No, they hang me for sure 'fore they even get him in the doc's tent."

"And maybe the rest of us," Psalms tacked on, his own neck the thing that worried him most.

"What you wanna do?" Elam shouted, stepping up to be toe to toe with Psalms. "Let 'em out here to die? Murder him?" And he saw the answer in the merciless look in the other man's eyes. Grabbing Psalm's shirt, he shoved the man backwards, wanted him further away from the downed Bahammon. Pointing a threatening finger at Psalms, he growled, "You are not killing him, Psalms. I ain't letting you."

Marcus sneered, "You can't stop all of us."

"That what we are now, murderers?" Elam bitterly spat. "Got our freedom so we can go 'round killing some body 'cause it's easier than doing what you know be right."

"Easier than hanging," Psalms lowly said, saw the disgust flash in Elam's eyes. "The Swede will want somebody to pay a price, show that he over us, keep us in line."

"And you think Bohannon being dead 'stead of alive gonna make that better?" Elam incredulously demanded.

Psalms dropped his voice, hoped to make Elam see reason. "What I think is, them not knowing how he died safer for all of us."

"He ain't dead!" Elam hissed, hated hearing Psalms say those words, seemed to make them truer and truer.

"He will be," Psalms half predicted and half threatened.

Stepping between Psalms and the downed Bohannon, Elam snarled, "You leave him be."

"We gotta do what's best for us," Psalms said before he yanked Elam aside, wasn't planning on having a gun barrel pressed against his temple the next moment.

"You. Ain't. Killing. Him," Elam slowly drawled, pressed his gun barrel harder into Psalms' head.

Stunned, Psalms sputtered, "You sidin' with him against me? Against your own kind?"

"No more than he done for me," Elam evenly returned, his conviction shining in his eyes, even as he lowered the gun. "He shot that white man to save me from dying when they strung me up on them rafters."

"You do this, you be an outcast," Psalms warned.

"I don't do this and I be worse than any of my masters been," Elam said, knew that, if he stood there, let them kill Bohannon, he was less the man than anyone ever thought he was. "I owe him my life, Psalms. And he ain't like the other white men we've known." Truth was, Cullen wasn't like the black men he knew neither. Was something separate from all of them, something better.

Knowing that Elam's mind was set, that there was no use in thinkin' he could talk sense into the other man, Psalms shook his head, "Fine, you make your bed, you gotta lie down in it." Then he raised his eyes to the north, to the clouds shifting in, called out to the Freed men cut crew, "Come on, 'bout to storm. We gotta get on up outta here and make for camp 'fore it lets loose."

Relieved that Psalms was seeing things clearer, Elam ordered, "Help me get him on the buckboard," was about to bend down grab Cullen by the shoulders but Psalms words stopped him, had him spinning to face the other former slave.

"No. You wanna save his life, you do it your ownself." Then turning to the nearest man, Psalms commanded, "Grab Bohannon's horse, tie her up to the buckboard. We'll let her loose on our way back."

Flinging his arm out, Elam caught Psalms' arm, began to threaten, "You leave us here…"

"Us is it?You and him are thick, ain't ya. Hope so 'cause you'll probably swing for his murder if you stay behind."

"Won't 'cause he ain't dying and you're gonna keep your black mouth shut about all this. You say me and him scouted ahead, that he ordered ya'll back to camp. And you ain't gonna say nothing 'bout him being hurt," Elam sketched out what story he needed Psalms to spread back at camp.

A slow, proud smile eased onto Psalms' features. "So if he dies, you can say was his horse or Indians or a bad fall."

"No fool!" Elam snapped in frustration. "So he can say none you done him harm."

When Psalms' look dropped to Bohannon, Elam tensed, knew in that moment that if need be, he would shoot Psalms if he sensed the other black man aimed to strike out at Cullen. But when his former friend's eyes rose up to his, he saw the ridicule there, heard it the man's next words.

"You believing he gonna be right as rain is pathetic. Thought you saw enough with Willie to know where head wounds lead…only to the grave, son. And for you, a rope all over again." Then Psalms turned around took a step away, stopped and called over his shoulder, "When he don't make it, you should light out of here, get far as you can, quick as you can."

"If he don't make it, I'll come for you, Psalms," Elam lethally vowed to the other man's back, would hold Psalms at fault if Cullen died, for stranding him and Bohannon here, leaving the white men for dead like he was no better than an animal. "And you'll wish I be as forgivin' as your master."

To this, Psalms gave no reply, simply walked away, ordered the crew to pack up, load themselves on the buckboard and make sure Bohannon's horse didn't slip his reigns, stayed tied to the buckboard.

Turning his back on the departing men, Elam stripped off his vest and knelt beside Bohannon. Pressing his bunched up fabric against the heavily bleeding wound on Cullen's temple, he tried to shut out Psalms' dark prediction even as his vest soon was sopping with blood. He raised his free hand but hesitated at the last, let it hover over Bohannon's chest. A black man was not permitted to touch a white man without consent, that had been ingrained in him, a few times by lashes. But this, Cullen, he didn't seem like a white man….he seemed more like what Willie had almost been, if Elam allowed such connections.

Cullen's words from back at the camp fire about his son's burning to death while held in the black woman's arms came back to him, "I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began."

And suddenly Elam knew what that meant, how it felt, to be connected to someone else, to be bound to them, not 'cause of chains or fear..but out of choice.

Lightly resting his hand on Cullen's chest, relieved to feel the slight rise and fall, he spoke to the gravely wounded man. "You ain't dying on me, ya hear. You said I was the only one you trusted, well now I'm in the same boat." But Bohannon made no promise in return, lay as still as Willie had in his hold.

And that comparison set him into motion. Shucking out of his shirt, he folded it lengthwise. Then, as careful as he could, he lifted Bohannon's head and struggled one handedly to wrap the makeshift bandage around the other man's head. When he gave a tug on the ends of the "bandage" to tie it tight, he found it worrisome that Bohannon didn't even flinch in pain. "I fought them Indians with you, least you owe me is to stay living," he goaded, received the same response as his other entreaties had gotten. Not a peep, not a twitch, no sign that Psalms wasn't right, that head wounds, they be the death of even the strongest of men.

A crack of thunder had him looking up at the sky, scowling. There would be no mercy from nature in this. Course mercy wasn't something he came to expect anyways.

That thought had Elam staring down at the wounded man whose life rested wholly in his hands. For all of Bohannon's gruffness and his drive for vengeance, he was the man who had taught him most about forgiveness. Had forgiven him things no one else, white or black, ever would. Had saved his life…but more than that. He had risked his own life in doing it.

Bohannon had said that God had a funny way of teaching you things, and Elam, he understood that just then. 'Cause never in his whole life did he ever believe he would be kneeling in the dirt 'side a bleeding white southerner who used to own slaves and be praying to God to spare that man's life.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Tbc

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Thanks so much to CrashDisaster and Smokeyhorse! Loved that you guys were excited to see me attempt a HoW tale!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	3. Chapter 3

Felled

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own or have any rights to Hell on Wheels, nor am I making any profit from this story.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 3

XXXXXXXXXXX

Cullen wasn't sure what snapped him awake. Opening his eyes didn't set him straight on the matter either. Not when he wasn't sure what he was looking at. What he did sort out was he was moving and not by his own steam, was being carried.

'_Over somebody's shoulder_,' he realized, didn't remember a time when that had ever been a good thing.

He moved, intended to demand to be put down so he could stand on his own feet. But he nearly blacked out after doing little more than raising his head from the shoulder blades it rested on. He moaned as agony speared into his brain.

Suddenly the motion halted and a voice he knew invaded his personal campaign of pain.

"Whoa, hey, you awake?"

Elam. Elam was carrying him and for a moment, Cullen couldn't reckon how that had ever come to be.

As if sensing the other man's confusion, Elam supplied, "You took a pick to the head. 'member that?"

And he did recall a pick aiming for his skull….then not a thing. "I take it I ain't dead," he managed to get out around his thick tongue.

"You too stubborn to die," Elam shot back, didn't let his relief show.

"Not stubborn…too stupid…" Bohannon corrected, his voice rough with pain. Way he felt right then, death didn't seem such a bad fate.

Then it was there again, what had jarred him awake: the boom of thunder. "Storm," he mumbled, letting his eyes close and his head come to rest again between Elam's shoulder blades.

"Yeah, it's fixin' to let loose any time now," Elam confirmed, his own eyes going overhead to the darkening sky before sighting again on the ruts in the prairie that led back to camp. A camp he couldn't see, no matter how long or far he looked. No way they made it back before the storm and no way they made it 'fore nightfall. He heaped more curses on Psalms' head but, even so, he couldn't help feel a heap better 'cause Bohannon was awake, wasn't dead. Tightening his grip on Bohannon's leg, he started walking again. Wasn't doin' neither of them no good him stopping.

But Bohannon had other ideas. "Put me down," the man suddenly ordered.

Elam didn't slow his pace, had no intentions of following that command. "I'm bettin' you can't walk on your own. You too proud to be carried by a black man?" he challenged, didn't truthfully know if Bohannon felt that way, knew every man had his pride.

"No," Cullen groaned out, had to swallow hard before he got the other words out, "but I'm gonna be sick, this keeps up."

That was reason enough for Elam.

Crossing over to the nearest hill, Elam eased Bohannon off his shoulder and settled the wounded man as gentle as he could onto the ground, made it so Cullen's back and head came to rest against the small incline. He didn't miss Cullen's sharp inhale at the jostling.

Gritting his teeth to keep a howl of pain from escaping, Cullen pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, was determined to not lose his breakfast either.

Coming to a crouch by Bohannon, Elam got his first good look at the wounded man since he had pulled him over his shoulder. Immediately, some of Elam's conviction that Bohannon being awake meant the man wasn't gonna die, faded. Cullen's face was flushed with fever, the crude bandage wrapped around his head was heavy with blood and some of that liquid was streaking down the side of Bohannon's face. When Cullen gave a rough, dry cough, Elam silently cursed Psalms for not leaving even a canteen of water behind. '_Few minutes and you'll get all the water you want…and more_,' he darkly predicted, his eyes again slipping to the sky.

His eyes scanning their surroundings before settled back on Elam, Cullen asked, his voice a hoarse hiss of breath, "You wanna tell me where my horse is and the cut crew?"

"I figure crew's 'bout back to camp already. And your horse, they were gonna let it loose on the way," Elam blandly stated, didn't think there was no good reason to not be straight with Bohannon.

Bohannon's head did a curious tilt and he began to ask, "Why'd they…." But suddenly he understood. He always was good at making out the hard truths. "They're hoping I do the right thing for them and die," he figured, not with so much wrath as acceptance as he watched Elam, waited to see if the man would lie for the other black men that made up the Freed Men cut crew.

Elam's jaw jumped, his own anger still smoldering at the other men's betrayal of Bohannon. Last thing he was gonna do was defend them.

Giving a self-depreciating snort of laughter, Cullen closed his eyes. "Guess I shoulda listened better when ya said I was as bad as Johnson."

"Ain't you they hate," Elam quickly stated, knew that much about the other men. When Cullen opened his one eye to give him a disbelieving look, he clarified, "It's the Swede. They figure, it gets out one of them hurt you, the Swede might string us all up."

That theory had Cullen focusing both blurry eyes on Elam. "You stay behind to make sure I don't make it back to town," he wryly asked.

"Yeah, that's why I slung your heavy white carcass over my shoulder and went for a mosey in the direction of camp," Elam sarcastically drawled with a bit of a sting. Sure, he didn't expect no hug from the man for saving his hide but he expected a tad more trust and a small slice of gratitude. He had stuck his neck out for Bohannon and like Psalms said, after this, he might be an outcast even with his own people.

Cullen studied the black man, didn't quite know what to make of the situation. They had had each other's back 'fore but this was a different animal altogether. This was Elam siding against his own kind. "Easier to just finish me off." Because he was having a hard time believing that the other members of the cut crew hadn't come up with that fix.

Elam wasn't fool enough to tell Bohannon that Psalms had that notion, but by the intense look in the southerner's eyes, Bohannon had already figured that out on his own. So instead of denying what was almost done by the others, Elam explained why he'd done what he did. "Like it woulda been easier to let 'em hang me." Because this situation, it wasn't much different in his eyes.

"Yup, woulda been," Cullen admitted in his unhurried southern drawl. And like that was all that needed to be said, he closed his eyes, felt like he could sink right into the ground his head felt so heavy. Not to mention it hurt like the dickens. Worse than the time he took a rifle butt to the head by one of the Yankees.

"We gotta get moving again. Storm's gonna be a bad one," Elam predicted, the boom of thunder proving his point.

Without opening his eyes, Cullen ordered, "Get on back to town. I'll be along after a spell." And he could feel Elam's gaze on him for a few moments before he sensed the man standing up and walking away. With Elam's departure, Cullen felt some of his reserves of energy bled away. Relieved to not need to worry 'bout nobody but himself.

He didn't even realize he had dozed off until a hand came to rest on his shoulder and he jerked awake. Eyes flying open he saw that Elam was hovering over him. "Thought you left," he groused as if he was disappointed to find the other man hadn't abandoned him.

Elam didn't bother refuting Cullen's belief. Man talked about trust when it came to Indians and arrows but the fool wasn't all that good with it when it came to him being unable to take care of himself. "Scouted around a bit. Ain't nothing out here for cover."

"Little rain wouldn't kill me," Cullen grumbled, though the idea of something even as infinitesimal as a drop of rain hitting his pounding head sounded like the worst torture right then.

"Good, 'cause I hate to waste my time carrying a corpse," Elam replied and then, without a word of warning, he hauled Cullen off the ground and over his shoulder again. Shifting the man's weight a moment, he balanced it out enough to straight up and then he started the walk back to camp.

The change of altitude made his head feel like it was stuck between a tightening vise and Cullen couldn't choke back the groan of agony. It took him a lot of hard swallows and careful breaths before he could speak. "Put me down. I can walk."

Elam laughed at the other man's boast. "How you gonna walk when you can't even crawl?" he challenged.

Whatever denial Cullen was about to make was drown out by a wave of intense pain. Clamping his mouth and his eyes shut, he clutched onto the back of Elam's shirt, hoped the black man thought his frantic grip on him was to steady himself because of the other man's gait. Last thing he wanted Elam to figure out was that he was anchoring himself to him to ride out the pain.

But pain was one thing Elam knew better than breathing. Didn't need no confession from Bohannon to know the man was hurting. Bad. Weren't nothing he could do for the man and he felt that old familiar helplessness soaking into his bones. He might be a free man but that didn't mean he was free from pain. Or had ways to make sure it didn't visit itself on others…like Willie. And now Bohannon.

And he thought about how he had been raised, to pretend the hurt wasn't there, to tell himself to think on something else and not let them see him break. Tightening his grip on Bohannon, he began to sing, not the raucous, baldy songs he done when working the cut crew, but the quiet melody he oftentimes heard the woman sing when he was on the plantation….when they were tending to the sick…or the dying.

The Gospel train's a'comin'

I hear it just at hand

I hear the car wheel rumblin'

And rollin' thro' the land

Get on board little children

Get on board little children

Get on board little children

There's room for many more

I hear the train a'comin'

She's comin' round the curve **

As he continued to sing, Elam felt Bohannon's grip on him loosen, hoped that it was a sign that the man's pain was lessening. And it was strange to him, to wince at a white man's pain instead of celebrate over it.

Maybe change was coming after all…even if it was just between one former slave owner and hisself.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

TBC

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Thanks so much for my wonderful reviewers! You give me the gumption to keep penning and posting this story! And thanks to anyone else reading this tale.

** According to my findings on the Internet, this song "Gospel Train's A Coming" was song by slaves who wanted to signal others about the underground railroad movement. Wonder how Bohannon would feel if he knew the meaning of the song that was lulling him to unconsciousness?

Have a great day!

Cheryl W


	4. Chapter 4

Felled

Disclaimer: I do not own or have any rights to Hell on Wheels, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Author's Note: Well here's the final chapter of this tale. Hope you enjoy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 4

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

'_It's like God hisself is aiming on drownin' us_,' Elam cursed as, minutes after the sky opened up, let loose its floodgates and he began slipping in the mud along the trail. A trail that had been dry dust that powdered the air when he and the rest of the freed men had walked that same way getting where they were going that morning. And the trench they had dug, it now was forming up to be a stream, came above his raggedy shoes. Not like it mattered much, not when the rain was during her best to soak through his skin and bones, ran unchecked from his shaven head in rivets down his face and buried itself into every layer of clothing he owned, 'cept the spot on his shoulder where the Southern was draped.

Not like he could hear much, what with the crack of thunder and the roar of the rain, but there was a worrisome silence from the man tossed over his shoulder. Elam couldn't tell if the man's chest was still risin' and fallin' with breath. Sure, the Southern had talked, had boasted that he could walk hisself back to Camp but that had been a few miles ago. Since then, the man had become all dead weight and Elam was beginning to fear that description be all too true.

Might be that dark prophecy that had him nearly dropping Bohannon when the wounded man began thrashing in his grip. Then the Southerner shouted "Hold!" loud enough to outmatch the volume of booming thunder. And Elam barely managed to keep the man atop his shoulder, got an elbow to the jaw as Bohannon struggled against an unseen enemy. Fearing the man would jostle right out of his hands, Elam stepped to the side of the trail to the smallest of overhangs from the sloping hill and pulled Bohannon from his shoulder, dropped more than eased the thrashing man to the ground.

And then Elam stood over Cullen, confounded, watched the man's arms and legs flail, his head roll, mumbling more than shouting, words that had nothing to do with the here and then. "Hold the line! Don't let 'em flank us. Stay in the pits and take yer shots!"

Every man has his own night terrors, Elam knew that. Had heard the screams, the shouts, the begging in the middle of the night, had crept up to one of the bravest man in their slave quarters and watched him beg for mercy he never would awake. Night had a way of breaking even the strongest. And fever, it had a way of doing even worse, of loosening tongues, letting escape hurts buried deep, tearing into the soul 'till all the secrets bled out.

Dropping to his knees in the muddy earth beside Bohannan, he reached out, laid his hand on Cullen's forehead. He didn't need no saw bones to tell him that a raging fever had hold of the Southern. That the man's mind, it wasn't aware of him or the rain or the mud, was off somewheres else. And Elam knew in his gut that it wasn't someplace Cullen Bohannon ever wanted to be again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cullen jolted as the cannon to his right fired, spit flames as it hurled the ball toward the Yankee line foolishly out in the open on the other side of the stone bridge that spanned the Maryland creek. He didn't bother to track the ball, had enough keepin' him busy with the small but merciless rifle balls peppering the area around him like a swarm of bees. He was giving an order to a soldier who was standing to his right when the eighteen year old kid toppled over, a bullet lodged into his neck.

Bohannon didn't kneel by the wounded kid, could see the light fading in the boy's blue eyes even as he choked up blood. Instead, reaching to his right, he yanked another soldier to his side, had to yell to be heard above the crack of rifles, the cry of the wounded and dying and the unsynchronized cannon fire. "Tell General Toombs we need ammunition, won't hold the bridge another hour without it. Now go," and he gave the boy, who weren't all that much older than his son, a shove.

Then turning to the Georgian company that he commanded, Bohannon shouted out his order. "We need to conserve ammunition! Only a few men shoot at a time and don't shoot 'til the Yankees are halfway 'cross the bridge or 'bout dead center of the creek, then drop only the front line. We'll pile 'em up on the limestone and creek bed."

From his position on the west bluff, Cullen squinted against the sunlight, near able to make out the expression of the Yankee's commanding officer as he sat on his horse. The officer seemed a might riled that his men were dying on the bridge 'stead of crossing it.

A grim smile pulled onto Cullen's lips. They would soon show the Yankees what it felt like to have _their_ towns ransacked, for their food to be taken. Savored the notion of northern families knowing the sting of being thrown out of their own homes…like the Yankees had done in all the towns in the south, leaving only destruction in their wake. He could only pray that his own family in Meridian, Mississippi was safe, thanked God his son was too young to be among the number of boys fighting and dying that day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Though Elam knew the way to break a fever was with cold water, he didn't hold much stock in the icy rain doing no good. That wouldn't be their luck, neither his nor Bohannon's. But watching the older man thrash like something was coming for his soul then lay eerily still before thrashing again, it didn't set well with Elam.

Grabbing hold of Bohannon's jerking arm, he slid his hand into the Southerner's and squeezed, hard. "Wherever you think you at, you ain't there, Bohannon. Don't know if that's the good news but I figure it is."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was like there were two bridges 'cross the creek, one made of limestone dripping with blood and the other of dead Yankee bodies.

Bohannon watched brave man after brave man boldly advance forward..right into his line of fire. And still, more Yankees came wading through the bloody water, stumbling over the bodies scattered on the bridge. Like they had no notion that they were walking right into a firing squad, were bound to die 'stead of gaining the other side of the creek.

Until his dark prediction of an hour ago came true.

They were plum out of ammunition, almost down to the last man under his command. But his orders had not changed, he and his men were to hold the bridge or die trying. "Alright boys, time to get wet. Knives, bayonets, whatever shot you got left, we use 'em now. Come on," and he led the charge from the rifle pit, marked the men at his side, some of them fell under the rain of Yankee fire. And then he was in the river, his knife finding Yankee flesh and his fists flying, and beside him his men did the same, struck out at the closest blue coat.

The creek swelled, not with the rising tide but with hundreds of men, fighting, for their honor, for their homes, for the freedom to live…and die a way of their choosing.

Cullen didn't hear the command, maybe did and refused to heed it, wanted to fight his way to the other side of the river, stain the Northern soil with Yankee blood. He nearly swung a fist at the man who grabbed him from behind, yelled in his ear, "Sir, we're been ordered to retreat!"

Shoving his latest kill away, he looked at the carnage around him, easily knew more Yankee bodies bobbed in the water and littered the bridge than Rebel. But all that could change, was changing. And he had his orders.

His voice hoarse from inhaling smoke of rifle shot and cannon fire, he shouted about the unholy din of battle, "Men! Retreat! Retreat!" He began walking backwards, slicing his knife through any Yankees brazen enough to get near him.

Stepping out of the water and back onto the bank of the creek, he turned to leave, to follow his men as they fell back to General Toombs' line a few hundred yards back. But a round from a Yankee light Howitzer hit the ground a few feet in front of him, sent mental shards splintering into the air.

Bohannon screamed as the boiling hot metal ripped into his thigh.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Bohannon suddenly cried out in pain, began writhing frantically on the ground, like he was on fire, Elam done his best to pin the man to the ground. Catching a fist to the jaw, he cursed, had a fleeting notion to let Bohannon get his ownself back to Camp. Instead, he leaned over, pressed his forearm across Bohannon's chest and ruthlessly captured and dug his fingers into the man's jaw and gave it a shake. "Settle down!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cullen fought the hands that grabbed him, knew the agony to come if they moved him, took him to some doctor's tent to either die or get his leg hacked off.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Bohannon's panic spiked higher at his rough handling, Elam knew his way wasn't getting through to his friend. Releasing his hold on Bohannon's chin and removing his forearm from the man's chest, he again caught the man's hand, grasped it, said, "Listen to me. You made it through, what you dreamin' 'bout, it ain't real. Not no more. It ain't real."

Elam was relieved when his friend soon traded up thrashing for lying still, chest rising with each breath. Couldn't hold back the smile when the Southern's feverish but alert eyes slowly opened, found him.

"Elam?" Cullen croaked out, the other man's presence not making much sense in the thick of Sharpesburg.

"No other fool haul you back to camp, especially when you yelling like the Indians are comin' for you," Elam drawled, pulling his hand from Cullen's now that the man was coming back to himself.

"Indians," Bohannon blankly repeated before he remembered. The war was over. There were no Yankees coming for him. But just to be sure it was all just in his head, he reached a trembling hand down to his leg, was relieved when he didn't feel the jagged cut in his flesh where the shrapnel had been. Sagging back to the ground, he looked up at his friend. "How long I out?"

"Too long. Be dark soon," Elam gruffly returned, burying his worry under a front of irritation.

"Now ya need me awake to toss me over your shoulder?" Bohannon challenged.

Elam held Cullen's eyes, said without judgment. "Couldn't carry ya. Not with the flaying out you was doing." He detected shame in the Southern's eyes before Bohannon struggled to sit up, managed only when Elam aided with a hand to his elbow.

Sharply recognizing that rain had soaked through every layer of clothing he wore, Cullen barely cared, his head was aching too much for water and cold to make it much worse. "Help me up," he ordered, snagged Elam's sleeve so the man didn't rise without him.

Without protest, Elam slipped his arm around Bohannon's waist and pulled them both onto their own two feet. Feet that slid in the mud a moment before stilling. Then Elam tugged Bohannon forward, back onto the trail that led to the place both of them called home. But he couldn't help steal a look to his friend, couldn't help but wonder about Bohannon's nightmare.

Even half dazed and drenched to the bone, Cullen felt Elam's eyes on him. "You got somethin' you wanna say, go on," he groused, felt like he had little pride left anyhow, especially when it came to Elam.

Though Elam knew the territory was an open wound for the other man, he wasn't willing to miss his chance to ask. "You dreaming 'bout the war?"

"Nah," Cullen denied, almost sighed when Elam pressed for an answer not more than thirty seconds later.

"Then what you dream 'bout?" Elam asked, confused at Bohannon's denial, because he woulda swore the man had been muttering military commands.

Knowing that his present companion liked to ask questions that were none of his affair, had a bad habit of trailing him around camp, even following him straight into his tent 'till he got himself an answer, Cullen eyed Elam, sighed and gave in. "Yeah, the war," hoped that would satisfy the former slave's cat like curiosity.

And for a moment, it did. Until Elam remembered the heated words between Bohannon and the Union Lieutenant Griggs, all about some place they each called something else. A place Elam had never heard of. "The battle of Sharpesburg?" he asked.

The name of the battle coming from Elam had Bohannon stopping in his tracks, giving Ferguson a sharp intense glare. "What do you know about Sharpesburg?"

"Only what you told the Yankee Lieutenant. That you killed a lot of his kind. 'till you ran out of bullets," Elam repeated.

"About the way of it," Cullen allowed as he began walking again, Elam helping him with each step. And maybe Elam being there, not leaving him in the ditch, it owed the man some truth. "And yeah, I was dreaming 'bout that battle. Felt…" he swallowed, the memories not ones he liked to dig up. "…like it was happening all again."

"Something happen to your leg there?" Elam guessed, got an angry scowl form Cullen like the southern thought he was stealing stuff right from his head. "When you woke up, you looked at your leg, rubbed it like you was making sure it was still there."

Accepting Elam's explanation, Cullen faced ahead again, grimly admitted, "Was a near thing."

"Near don't make it so," Elam quietly declared, didn't back down to the surprised look Cullen shot him.

"No, it don't," Cullen agreed and somehow Elam's logic, it soothed the fear still clawing at him at the memories, made him remember that, it was the past. Couldn't hurt him where he was now. Course where he was wasn't all that grand, with a head pounding so hard it was more likely to exploded, miles from camp, trudging in the mud and the rain. But he wasn't alone. And dang if that didn't make things alright.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Elam thought 'bout kissing the muddy ground of the camp when he and Bohannon stumbled onto the outskirts just as the sun was thinking about making her appearance. Without discussing it with the wounded man, he led them right to the tent of Durant's doctor, called out at the tent's flap, "Got an injured man here!"

And though Bohannon was practically dead weight after their trek back to town, Elam didn't set him down onto the bench outside the tent, wasn't going to leave his job half done. "Come on, get up!" he beckoned again before he heard grumbling and a curse, a chamber pot being tripped over and then the doctor was there, nearly swaying out of the tent opening. "He took a blow to the head, needs tending to," Elam explained, then, frustrated with the man's delay, he led his friend past the doctor into the tent and carefully eased Bohannon to sit on the doctor's now empty bed.

"You can lay down now," Elam permitted, giving Bohannon's shoulder a nudge and slipping his hand behind Bohannan's neck, making sure the man's injured head settled lightly on the pillow. Then he pulled Cullen's feet up, muddy boots and all onto the bedroll. He almost railed as the tent's owner pushed him aside so he could start doing his doctoring.

Untying the bloody shirt around the Camp's foreman, the doctor scowled, demanded of his patient, "When the cut crew came back without you, spouting a tale about you scouting ahead and not coming back, Durant thought either those freed blacks had killed you or the Indians had. So which one did this to you?"

Before Elam could lie, Bohannon's hoarse, weak voice answered. "Neither. Horse kicked me." And Cullen opened his eyes, stared past the doc to Elam. He saw the other man's grateful nod before he closed his eyes, enjoyed the feel of a bedroll under him and no rain drenching him.

Trusting that Bohannon was gonna be taken care of, Elam backed away, started to head out of the tent but couldn't make himself walk away until he heard the doctor's words to his friend. "Nice deep cut there and by the looks of it, you lost a fair amount of blood. Your eyes seem a bit dull but if you were gonna die you would have already."

"You saying I got lucky, doc?" Cullen drawled, the idea of him having good luck giving him dark amusement.

"I'm saying most people, with a head injury like this, would have sat down and died, would never have made it miles in the rain and the dead of night. If that isn't lucky, what would you call it?" the doctor lightly scoffed.

Cullen opened his eyes, but he didn't seek out the doctor's face, instead sought out the figure half way out the tent flap. "I call it having a friend who's willing to catch ya when you fall." And he smiled when Elam didn't look his way but hurriedly shuffled out of the tent, like he wanted to pretend he hadn't heard what Cullen had said.

But Elam had heard and was finding it hard to fight back the smile that was pulling onto his own lips as he left Bohannon in the doctor's care. He wasn't sure he had ever called anybody his friend before, found it strange that the first man to call him that, was white. Was a white Southern who had fought for the Confederacy, once owned slaves and treated him more like his equal than any other man, white or black ever had.

As he threaded his way through the camp, Elam caught the respectful looks coming from both the white and black men as they readied themselves for another day on the railroad. And suddenly he knew that, in the new life he was building for hisself, his actions made him the man he was. That and the company he kept.

Elam nearly chuckled at how Cullen Bohannon would scowl at the notion of him being decent company.

But the truth of it was, his _friend_ had taught him that, the color of a man's skin or the sound of a man's southern accent, neither was a good judge of who a man was down deep in his soul. That, when the hard times come, you could get downright surprised by who saved you, who you ended up calling friend.

It made Elam think of that Bible verse 'bout God working in strange ways. And he figured God thought Hisself so smart, putting two fool, hotheaded, stubborn men on the same train work detail, akin to throwing two cats in a bag. Then God takes Hisself a seat and watches him and Cullen snap at each other, just waitin' for 'em to make nice, knowing all along they was gonna need each other. Cause it don't matter what color skin you got, even the strongest of men sometimes fall, need somebody they trust to give them a hand up, to help 'em find their way home again. Even if home was just a tent staked down by a fresh row of train rails.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

THE END

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Whew! Well, I got our boys back to town and finally on the same page with their friendship! Plus I got to write about the civil war, which was a treat for me. Thanks for anyone who took the time to read this story's conclusion and I hope you enjoyed some of what I wrote.

And a million thank yous to my wonderful reviewers: CrashDisaster, Smokeyhorse, Teresa, Rebelintheheart84, C.I Tiger Fan and EagleGirl6! You guys were so generous and I want to thank you for encouraging me and nurturing my fragile ego on my little venture into HOW.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


End file.
